


Rebooting

by faeleverte



Series: Two-Man Rule [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Comforting Clint, Established Relationship, M/M, Pheels, Tahiti, mind control?, post ep 1.06, self-identity crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 01:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte/pseuds/faeleverte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don’t hang up. I can’t prove it’s me if you do,” Coulson said crisply, trying to keep the desperation from leaking into his voice. He knew he had not managed when he heard a sharp, pained hiss from the other end of the line.</p><p>“The usual place,” came the reply, no hesitation. “How far out are you?”</p><p>“Thirty minutes,” Coulson said. “I can be there in thirty.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First, my eternal gratitude to the best betas in the world, [Selana](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Selana/pseuds/Selana) and [Kathar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar) Without them, this story would not say what I am trying to say. Without them, this story would be unreadable.
> 
> This is a reboot of [This Flesh That I’m In](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1004245) as that one was completely Jossed (like I knew it would eventually be), and we are trying to keep this, if not canon-compliant, at least canon-associated. Some portions will look familiar to readers of the earlier work. This is NOT the same story.
> 
> Kathar and I began tossing our thoughts on C/C and AoS around and discovered that we share a brain. And we also found that we were asking and answering different but related questions, and this shared ‘Verse was born. It is now growing at an alarming rate, and our fingers are being worn to nubs to keep up.

Coulson woke sweating and swearing and stumbled to the head to splash water across his face and relieve his aching bladder. He scratched the back of his neck with his left hand while he held his cock with the right, aiming a steady stream into the tiny toilet, and then he scratched at the scars on his chest. He snapped from that dreamy, post nightmare state to full wakefulness when he heard his own voice murmur, “It’s a magical place.”

And, really, what is it with that phrase? Coulson shook away the last drop, tugged the fly of his sleep pants closed, and turned to wash his hands as the toilet auto-flushed. After soaping and rinsing, he splashed a double handful of water across his face and groaned quietly, letting his fingers press into the lines just above his eyelashes. Everything felt so unfamiliar. How could everything seem so perfect and so completely alien at once?

A glance at the alarm showed that it wouldn’t go off for another fifty-six minutes, so Coulson flipped his pillow to put the cool side against his cheek as he dropped back into the blankets. Fifty-five minutes of sleep sounded like a good idea. Maybe he would feel normal after that.

Just as he sank into the blessed quiet of rest, Coulson tried to remember the nightmare that had awakened him in the first place. He drew a blank, and then sleep swept him away.  
_____

The morning after the nightmare, Coulson was standing in the shower trying to, er, relieve some pressure, but he couldn’t find a rhythm. He switched hands and tried again, sifting through his memory for images of touch, of heat, of pressure. He switched hands again. 

He suddenly wished, for the first and last time, that he had taken Reyes up on her offer of… whatever she had been offering. Maybe he was just out of practice since the Loki incident. He felt a new wave of longing sweep over him, melting his erection. He missed Clint. Right then, however, he would have taken any touch that was familiar with him from… before. Maybe the surgery and follow up medication had damaged him. 

Maybe it was all lies, anyway. He shook his head, thinking hard to remember the days in the tiny room with the trainer and nothing to do. Days of nothing to focus on except the strain in his back as he lifted weights, the burn in his arms and legs as he rolled across the floor and back. Nothing to taste but the cloying sweetness of the thick shakes full of Thor-knew-what cocktail of drugs the R&D department had come up with for him to rebuild what he had lost. 

“It was a magical place,” Coulson heard himself whisper, and he bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood. 

Blood. Blood was good. Blood meant his body was alive. Blood meant he could bruise and break and die. Blood meant he wasn’t a robot, wasn’t a fake, was still Phillip J. Coulson. 

Blood meant his heart was still beating.  
____

Four days later, the Bus was shut down for bio-cleaning quarantine after the Chitauri virus the team had been forced to transport. Fitz-Simmons were busy overseeing the clearing of the lab and the handling of the rats, dead and alive, that had been part of Simmons' antiserum experiments. May was on base where she could keep a close eye on Ward as he restarted his training of Skye. Coulson made certain they were all settled and spread a rumor that he had some paperwork to catch up on and would be busy for days. Then he packed a few necessities, swung the bag into Lola’s passenger seat and headed away from the setting sun.

Too many hours of driving, accompanied by unwelcome country music and welcome weather that let Lola remain topless, and Coulson was crawling through evening rush hour New York traffic. So good to be home. Ish. He had stopped at a big box store in the suburbs to grab a prepaid cell, and now he picked it up and dialed a number he had memorized a decade ago. He held his breath as he listened to the rings.

‘’Lo?” a groggy voice answered, thick with sleep and a level of exhaustion and grief that Coulson didn’t dare contemplate too closely while he was still driving. He sucked in a breath and answered before the silence dragged on too long.

“Don’t hang up. I can’t prove it’s me if you do,” Coulson said crisply, trying to keep the desperation from leaking into his voice. He knew he had not managed when he heard a sharp, pained hiss from the other end of the line.

“The usual place,” came the reply, no hesitation. “How far out are you?”

“Thirty minutes,” Coulson said. “I can be there in thirty.”

The line went dead, and Coulson was absolutely not shaking as he slid the phone back into his pocket. He was perfectly calm, perfectly relaxed, perfectly in control. Except for all the ways he was not, which was every way that did not relate to slamming the button for lights, sirens, and the computer controlled navigation system. 

Thirty minutes. All he had to do was keep breathing for thirty minutes. 

It felt like there was magic at work as Coulson found parking for Lola twenty-seven minutes after the end of his phone call. He managed to hurry up the road without looking like he was in a hurry. Three doors away from the diner, he gave in to vanity or nerves and stopped in front of a window to smooth his hair, loosen his tie, and unbutton the top button of his shirt. There was no help for the extra bags under his eyes, but he smoothed the lapels of his second-best suit and hoped he looked presentable. 

Coulson spotted Clint immediately upon walking through the door. Clint was in their favorite booth in the back corner, two cups of steaming coffee waiting in front of him. Their eyes locked, and Coulson tried to keep from running as he made his way over. 

“No Natasha?” Coulson asked as he slid into the empty seat.

“She’s on some… thing. With Cap,” Clint replied. His eyes were dark and guarded, and he looked so damned beautiful that Coulson twisted his fingers into the bottom edge of his jacket to keep himself from launching across the table and grabbing handfuls of archer. “And you’re not dead.”

“I was,” Coulson confessed with just a hint of braggadocio. “Officially and everything. Eight seconds, they said.” He took a sip of coffee.” Felt a lot longer. Surgery and then a trip to Tahiti for rehab. It’s a magical place.” 

“Why did I not know?” Clint asked. “I’m Level Seven.”

“I… I’m not sure what Fury was thinking,” Coulson said slowly. “No one in the Avengers was to know.” Another pause for a sip of coffee and to study Clint’s face. “You’re taking this awfully well.”

Clint laughed, higher than usual, a hint of hysteria and bitterness coloring the sound. It was still the most beautiful song Coulson had heard since the in-lab cameras caught the vibrant prism of Clint’s eyes being replaced with the coldest, bitterest blue.

“Well, I’m damned glad to see you again,” Clint said, leaning his elbows on the table. “This is like the happiest dream of my entire fucking life. But if you think this is ‘well,’ you’re not looking close enough.”

“The rest of your team doesn’t find out, Barton,” Coulson said. He felt his controlled little Agent half-smile on his face and hated it; he was never supposed to show Clint his Agent Face. He would rather show him… No, Phil. Don’t start down that road. “Natasha, if she’s in any shape to know when she gets back. No one else. Period.”

“Speaking of teams,” Clint said, twisting slightly to fling one arm along the seatback. “I read you’ve got yourself a new set of kids.”

Coulson raised an eyebrow in surprise and a question.

“Might have done some digging before I headed over here,” Clint answered. “Tell me about them.”

“They’re not all kids,” Coulson answered. “They’re almost as good as my last team.” 

Clint blushed and looked down, a wistful smile curling his lips. “Aw, Sir…”

A waitress interrupted with two plates, one loaded with golden pancakes and the other a decadent Belgian waffle and an oversized heap of bacon. 

“Haven’t seen you around, hon,” she said to Coulson as she rested one hand on his shoulder and leaned over to top up his coffee. “Out of the country with work?”

“And a vacation,” Coulson told her with a bright smile. “Tahiti. It’s a magical place.”

“Coulson,” Clint said, as the woman walked away. He leaned forward to grab Coulson’s fingers. “What did they do to you?”

“I don’t know, Clint,” Coulson answered helplessly, squeezing Clint’s hand hard. He looked where their fingers were twisting together, trying to figure out if the grip felt familiar. The callouses were the right kind of rough, at least. “I just… I can’t… Please, I need…”

Clint scrambled out of the booth without any of his usual grace and jerked Coulson to his feet by the sleeve of his jacket. Phil stumbled down the short hallway by the kitchen after him, before being shoved into the men’s room. When the door was securely locked behind them, Phil found himself being crowded into a wall by Clint’s broad chest, deft hands unknotting his tie and slipping free the buttons of his shirt. Phil hissed as Clint’s fingers dug under the undershirt, rucking it up to gain access to the furred span of chest behind.

“Clint,” Phil gasped, throwing his head back. “What are you doing?” Don’t stop, he added mentally. Don’t ever stop.

“Oh shit,” Clint whispered, trailing his fingers across the thick, ropey scars on Phil’s left pec. “You nearly died. Did die. Goddamn it, Phil. I lost you. I lost…”

Phil’s arms circled Clint’s shoulders, dragging him close enough to brush their lips together. “Shhh, babe,” he whispered. “Clint, it’s okay now. I…”

Clint cut him off by pressing hard into a kiss. His nails dug into Phil’s chest, and Phil tipped his head to deepen the contact.

It didn’t work. Instead, teeth clicked hard together, and Clint’s lip was caught in the crossfire.

“Ow, dammit! What the fuck are you doing? You should know I never lean right!” Clint said, pulling away. He touched a finger to the small, bleeding mark on his mouth. “What the hell was that? Our first kiss was better…” His eyes widened, and he turned away, covering his face with one hand. “It felt like you don’t know me. Don’t you remember how I… Can’t you do… Have you forgotten, or do you really not know?” His shoulders shook for a moment as if he was crying, and Phil started to reach out to offer comfort. Clint saw the movement reflected in the mirror and spun back, a gun from some hidden holster pressed into the groove between Phil’s eyebrows.

“Clint, what…”

“Shut up, Phil. Phil-a-like. Phake Phil. Whatever the fuck you are,” Clint snarled, pressing harder with the gun. “What are you? Phil knows my body, my mouth, ME better than he knows himself. You’re not Phil. Who sent you? WHAT ARE YOU?”

“Clint, I’m me,” Phil said, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice. “Clint, it’s just me. I’m here, and I’m scared, and there’s something wrong, and I need you to help me figure out what the hell they did to me. Please, Clint. God, you’re the only one who can help. I need you like I did after the Borneo op in ninety-four.”

The gun vanished into its hiding place, and Phil’s shoulders were surrounded by Clint’s muscular arms. One finger stroked under the back edge of Phil’s collar while Clint pressed his face into the starched cotton. Phil’s arms tightened around Clint’s back without Phil having noticed that he’d reached out.

“Borneo.” Clint’s voice sounded muffled from Phil’s neck, and he gasped as Clint pressed his lips against skin, sliding his mouth behind the open collar of the shirt to gently rest his teeth against the meat of Phil’s shoulder just below his neck. “You feel right in my arms, but not on my lips. Even your skin feels right, but … ”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Clint,” Phil said, digging his fingers into the hard muscles of Clint’s back where they strained under the soft, faded, black t-shirt with the purple target on the front. Phil wasn’t sure why he had almost gotten shot, and he was less sure why he hadn’t actually been shot, but he was going to take all of this hug that he could get.

Clint pulled away with a groan, leaving Phil with a damp spot on the shoulder of his shirt, an uncomfortably tight fit to his slacks, and a deeper knot of confusion in the pit of his stomach. 

“What… Why… Clint, what’s wrong with me?” Phil asked. He hunched his shoulders in as far as he could.

“Phil,” Clint whispered before cupping the sides of Phil’s face in his large, rough palms. “That was too awkward to have been a real kiss from Phillip Coulson. So who are you? What are you?”

“I… I’m… I don’t know, Clint,” Phil answered, trying to turn his face away. Clint’s hands tightened against his jaw, holding on, preventing Phil from moving. Phil watched as Clint leaned forward to capture his mouth in a much gentler kiss. Phil kissed back, and it was as unfamiliar, as unpracticed as the first. A few more moments of kissing and, although it still felt new, it was a good new. Maybe Phil’s body did not remember kissing, but it remembered how to like it.

“We have breakfast food out there,” Clint said, pulling away after the long, gentle press and stroke of lips. Phil immediately missed his mouth. “Let’s go eat. And then we can find someplace private to talk. Where’re you staying this weekend?”

“I… don’t know” Phil said. He shifted his feet and ran a hand over his hair. “I didn’t really make any plans. I didn’t really think much beyond getting here and calling you. I just… I needed to see you.” He didn’t include how afraid he had been that Clint would hang up on him. Or call in SHIELD or the Avengers, thinking Phil was… Phake Phil. Phil hoped he wasn’t a Phake. 

“Phil,” Clint breathed his name. Phil watched as his eyes darkened. “Stay with me. Please. You’ve got to see my place in Bed-Stuy. It’s a dump, but it’s mine, and it’s really home.”

“Food first, then,” Phil said, beginning to rebutton his shirt. He slipped the tie off his neck, rolled it up and shoved it into his pocket. He left the top two buttons of his shirt loose, and took off his jacket, handing it to Clint, to more easily tuck in his shirttails. He rolled his sleeves halfway up his forearms and took the suit coat back from Clint.

“That’s one way for me to work up an appetite, Sir,” Clint drawled, letting the backs of his fingers brush Phil’s forearm as he reached past Phil for the lock. “But it doesn’t make me hungry for waffles, I have to say.”

Phil rolled his eyes and followed Clint back to the booth. 

“This side, Phil?” Clint asked, gesturing with the tip of his head, and Phil could read the tiny spark of hope in Clint’s blue-green eyes. There was still so much sadness in the look, though, that Phil would not, could not, have said no to any request. 

Phil slid in next to the window, and Clint scooted close enough for their thighs to touch from knee to hip. Phil tried to shift, but Clint stayed pressed tightly to him, now leaning his broad shoulder into Phil’s with a little more pressure.

“Can I ask you some personal, impertinent questions, Sir?” Clint asked.

“When have you ever let a lack of permission stop you before?” Phil replied dryly, spreading butter and pouring hot maple syrup over the top of the pancake stack.

Clint ignored that and cut a chunk off of his waffle. 

“Bacon?” Clint said around an enormous bite. 

Phil glared before snatching a slice of bacon out of Clint’s fingers, biting it off, and chewing as if it had personally offended him.

“Do you have all your usual bodily functions?” Clint asked. “Hunger, thirst, urination, defa…”

“Yes, Clint, I get the idea,” Phil interrupted. He raised a bored eyebrow and fought down the urge to roll his eyes. “And yes to all of those.”

“Still have that cucumber problem?” Clint asked. “Although mainly I just want to know how soon you might kill off enough people to have an opening on your team. Because damn Sir, your digestive tract lets off some very lethal quantities of…”

“I have not eaten a cucumber since my recent demise,” Phil replied stiffly, a blush creeping across the back of his neck and tips of his ears. “Although I have found that I don’t like cilantro as much as I used to.”

“You never liked cilantro, Phil,” Clint said with a grin. “And you somehow never remember that.” Phil saw Clint tense and waited for the next question to surprise him. “Do you bleed?”

“Yes,” Phil answered, cutting a bite of pancake. “Bruise, ache, and, on chilly mornings, I feel things go ‘pop,’ too.” Phil tried to keep his eyes from closing with pleasure at the fluffy pancakes when the syrup hit his tongue.

“Age is not kind,” Clint agreed, stretching his arms over his head and arching his back. The resulting orchestra of crackling joints made a woman at a table on the other side of the room turn to look. Clint shot her a flirtatious wink and saluted with another strip of bacon. Phil snagged that piece just before Clint’s teeth sank into it.

“We do not wave crispy pork products at strange women,” Phil said with some asperity. “Anyone who waves bacon at strangers does not deserve to have bacon.”

“My god, I’ve missed you,” Clint said as the warmth of his shoulder burned through Phil’s shirt. “Eat first, and then we’ll go back to mine to talk.”

They took Lola to a parking lot that was nearer to Clint’s building where the guard owed Hawkeye a favor and walked together the rest of the way. Clint carried Phil’s bag, and Phil fought the urge to slip his arm around Clint’s waist and his fingers into Clint’s back pocket.

“Lucky, leave Phil alone,” Clint said as they walked into the apartment less than an hour later. There had been a brief glaring match over who was driving Lola (Phil won; she was his afterlife crisis prize) and a lot of silence and uncertain brushes of fingers against wrists on the drive, but they had both been content as Clint unlocked the door.

“‘Scuse the mess, Sir,” Clint said, waving a hand at the empty pizza boxes on the counter as he breezed through to the kitchen, dumping Phil’s bag just inside the door . “Kate hasn’t been here to take care of me much in the past couple of weeks. 

“Miss Bishop,” Phil replied with a nod. “How’s she shaping up?”

“She’s good,” Clint replied. “She may be better than me someday.”

And this,” Clint reached down to scratch the ears of a battered-looking retriever that had ambled out of the bedroom when he heard someone in the kitchen, “is Lucky. How is the ugly mutt? How is my Pizza Dog?” Then Clint looked back up at Phil as he reached for the fridge. “Drink?” he asked as he pulled out a bottle of Gatorade.

“No, thanks,” Phil said, suddenly feeling out of place and strangely shy. Clint smiled gently as he opened his drink, before he gulped half the bottle and replaced the lid.

“None of that, Phil,” he said softly. He set the bottle on the counter and prowled across the floor with his usual compact grace. Phil sucked in a breath as Clint’s hands reached for the buttons on Phil’s shirt. “Let’s see what we’re working with here. See if this body is what I remember.”

Phil closed his eyes and tried to regulate his breathing as warm fingers brushed the sides of his neck and then the skin of his shoulders once his shirt and jacket were removed. The undershirt was swept over his head, and then deft hands were unbuckling his belt and unfastening his slacks, pushing them down with his underwear. He concentrated on trying to avoid an inappropriate erection, but it did little good; Clint’s touch was electric and so, so welcome.

“Gotta take it all off, Sir,” Phil heard Clint murmur as he knelt to untie Phil’s shoes. Clint’s voice sounded rough around the edges, and Phil lifted his feet one at a time to allow his shoes, socks, pants, and boxers to be gently peeled from his ankles. “God…” Clint’s voice cracked, and he rested one palm against Phil’s thigh, leaning in until his head was pressed into Phil’s hip. 

“It’s okay, Clint,” Phil said, reaching down to cup the back of Clint’s head, pulling them more tightly together. “Really, really okay.” His own voice was completely wrecked. This, at least, was entirely familiar. This his body remembered.

They stayed like that for several minutes until Clint pulled away and scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. He rose gracefully to his feet and circled to examine Phil’s back. Phil fought the urge to turn around. He knew what his back looked like, and he wanted more than anything to hide it from Clint.

“Knot where that assassin got the drop on you in Belize,” he said, stroking his fingers over the place on Phil's ribs. Phil shivered at the touch. “Tattoo is still here, too,” Clint’s voice was much too close, breath brushing the inked skin of Phil’s right shoulder. “And…” Phil knew what Clint was seeing, but he still jumped at the gentle drag of fingers across the flesh ruined by the three-headed spear and subsequent surgeries.

“Clint,” Phil said, closing his eyes and letting his head drop back to rest on Clint’s broad shoulder. “What am I? Who am I?”

“Let’s get you dressed for comfort and talk about that,” Clint answered gently and stepped closer, the soft fabric of his shirt rubbing across Phil’s shoulderblades and his arms wrapping tightly around Phil’s scarred chest.

Five minutes later, the two men were each in a pair Clint’s sweatpants with comfortable t-shirts and holding heavy mugs of coffee, sitting side by side on the couch. Phil had seen Clint checking him out while they both changed, and he had wanted to beg Clint to touch, to kiss, to take.

“So where’d you collect the dog?” Phil asked, scratching Clint’s dog behind the ears. Lucky leaned into his knee and drooled on his pants. 

“He sorta came with the building,” Clint said, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly. “It’s a long story, and I’ll be glad to tell you the whole thing when we’ve figured out your problem.”

“I feel like me,” Phil said in a small voice, taking a sip of his coffee.

“That you do,” Clint replied with a leer. 

“Shut up, Barton,” Phil snapped. He managed to drag out his blandest secret agent smile, the one Natasha had always called “Please Underestimate Me Face Number One.” “You wouldn’t complain about feeling this body if it did turn out to be a Skrull or an LMD.”

“And you’re sure you’re not?” Clint asked, leaning over to set his coffee cup on the floor. He slipped one hand behind a sofa cushion and pulled out a sleek, wickedly sharp throwing knife. “I only have your word on the bleeding thing,” he explained with an apologetic shrug.

Phil sighed heavily, traded his cup of coffee for the knife and slid it across the palm of his hand. Clint kept his knives sharp enough that Phil barely felt the scrape. He followed that with a gentle drag across the back of his opposite forearm and held both oozing cuts up for Clint’s inspection. Clint pressed a fingertip to the cut on the back of his arm, and Phil winced.

“So you bleed. And hurt.”

“And feel both lust and annoyance,” Phil said dryly. Clint threw his head back to laugh as Phil handed back the knife, took his coffee, and dropped his uninjured palm back to Lucky’s ears. “And I’m rather considering stealing your dog.”

“Looks like you already did,” Clint said. He hesitated, a pause only noticeable to someone with Phil’s observational capabilities, and then said, “How long are you staying?”

“How long do you want me to stay?” Phil asked, wrapping both hands around his mug and staring hard into the depths of the brew. He was afraid that Clint would see the fear and hope and more fear if their eyes met.

“Don’t ask me that,” Clint said softly. He reached out to rest one hand on Phil’s knee. “Just tell me how long you can be here this time.”

“Bus is grounded for another five days,” Phil replied, still not looking up. “So at least three days. If I can…”

Clint interrupted him with a hug, pulling Phil in to his chest and sighing heavily. Phil set his mug on the floor and went boneless in Clint’s embrace.

“As long as you can, Phil,” Clint said, his breath huffing warmly against the thinning patch in Phil’s hair. “I’ll take whatever SHIELD and this shitty life we live will give me.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil rediscovers his body with Clint's help.

As they curled together on the couch, Phil turned his face into Clint’s neck and sighed. “This, at least, feels familiar,” Phil said. “It’s the only thing outside of my suits that has.”

“Yeah,” Phil was shoved into a better position as Clint shifted them both to get his mouth near Phil’s ear. “And how about this? Been remembering this?”

Phil sighed blissfully as Clint’s sinful tongue swirled around the lobe of his ear and lapped at the delicate skin of his neck.

“Did you remember this? Think of me when you needed a little stress relief?” Clint’s voice had dropped an octave, and Phil’s breathing was becoming uneven. “Stroke yourself in the shower and remember my hands, my mouth, my…”

“I haven’t been able to…” Phil interrupted. “I’ve tried, but I can’t, er, can’t find a rhythm. Can’t…”

“You’re shitting me?” It was Clint’s turn to interrupt. “Like not once?”

Phil pushed himself upright to give Clint his patented angry glare that Natasha dubbed the Agent Eat-Shit-and-Die. “No, Clint,” he said dryly. “I’m making it up so that you’ll have a good reason to mock me.”

“Phil,” Clint said softly, “I would not mock you for this. Whatever you’re going through, we’ll figure it out. Just… come here.”

Phil found himself manhandled into position with Clint’s legs stretched along the couch and Phil draped, half on his back, along Clint’s body. Clint’s hand was under Phil’s shirt, stroking gently and repeatedly over the scars on his chest.

“I’m having trouble handling weapons,” Phil began. He felt Clint’s lungs inflate for a witty comeback that Phil was sure would include comments about “handling” and “penis guns.” “Shut up, Barton. I understand the mechanics, but they feel so unfamiliar. I tried the paperclip trick a few days ago, and it just bounced off the wall.”

“Please tell me you didn’t actually try that in the plane,” Clint said, huffing a soft laugh. “At least not in the air.”

Phil chose not to dignify that with an answer.

“Do you think this is your body?” Clint asked. His fingertips did something wicked through the hair of Phil’s chest and then grazed a nipple. 

“I have read through my medical reports a hundred times,” Phil replied. “They all say that I’m fine. That I’m alive and healthy and doing really well for my age. But I feel different. I feel… Clint, I don’t know what I feel.”

“Come on,” Clint said, sitting up straighter and pushing at Phil’s arm. “Come with me.”

Phil stood and stepped back to let Clint get up. Lucky raised a skeptical eyebrow at them and then jumped onto the couch.

“Pizza Dog,” Clint said, making Phil smile at the nickname, “you’re going to have to stay out here alone for a bit.”

Phil let Clint take his hand and lead him up to a loft bedroom where the bed was a pile of tangled covers. 

“Apparently I don’t make my bed if there are no regulations telling me I have to,” Clint told him, looking sheepish. “But I just changed the sheets yesterday, so we should be good.”

Phil took a deep breath before speaking, found that he had no idea what to say, and let it back out again.

“Look, Phil,” Clint said, dropping Phil’s hand to rub at the back of his own neck. “I am not sure what is going on. You mostly seem like you. You sound like you. You look like you. You taste, move, and smile like you. But there is something off. Maybe it’s because your hands aren’t working.”

Phil felt his ears flush, so he lifted his chin to forbid the color to stretch further. He could tell by the heat on the back of his neck that it wasn’t working.

“Mine work just fine, Sir,” Clint said, stepping close enough for Phil to feel their breath mingling. “I would like to offer you the use of them. To see if it helps.”

“Clint,” Phil said, not surprised when it came out rough, “I don’t… I can’t…”

“Shhh, baby,” Clint whispered, and Phil closed his eyes and let himself be led over to the bed and pressed gently onto the mattress.

Clint’s deft hands efficiently stripped Phil’s shirt, sweatpants, and underwear from his body. There was a long pause where nothing happened, and Phil opened his eyes to find Clint staring down at him, eyes dark. 

“You are still the most beautiful man I have ever seen,” Clint said, his voice raw with emotion and honesty. “I missed you.”

Phil sat up and reached for Clint’s waistband, but his hands were batted away.

“No, babe,” Clint said, kneeling on the edge of the mattress and running his palms up Phil’s thighs gently. “This is about you. Want to see if anything about your body remembers me. See if you can let go for me.”

Phil sank back as Clint stretched along his side and then gave way when Clint pushed to turn them on their sides. Clint’s sweatpants were too thin to disguise the hardness of his cock against Phil’s ass, but Phil forced himself not to reach for it; Clint had set the parameters of this mission. 

“Feels the same from this side.” Clint’s breath was hot against the side of Phil’s neck. The string-calloused fingers of his left hand were tracing the hardness between Phil’s legs. “How does it feel to you?”

“Oh, God,” Phil said, voice cracking as Clint shifted to stroke his palm flat up the length of Phil's cock. “That’s… you’re… I…”

“Good?” Clint said. His hips rolled against Phil’s ass slightly. “Do you still like it the same way?”

Phil curled his right arm under his head and reached down with the other to wrap it over Clint’s, their fingers slotting together as they had a thousand times before. 

“I know this,” said Phil. He could hear the wonder in his own voice, hear the tears that he kept in check. “I know your hand.”

They matched their rhythms, hands and hips moving in sync. Clint’s teeth began to press softly against the back of Phil’s shoulder, and Phil’s hand sped up.

“That, Clint,” Phil gasped, arching his back. “Right there. More. Harder.” He could hear himself grunting out more directions, but even he could not tell what they were. Somehow, though, Clint knew exactly what he wanted. Grip tightening, wrist speeding up. Phil could feel himself starting to shake apart.

“Just like that, baby,” Clint hissed in his ear. “Let it go. Let your body tell you what it wants. Just let go. So hot… You feel so right… Yes. Oh, God. Oh. God, Phil. ‘M gonna…”

Feeling Clint pulse in his pants, hot and wet spreading between them, sent Phil over the edge and he came hard over their joined fists. Phil’s back arched further, and the waves of white-hot pleasure lasted longer than he could ever remember. It took a timeless eternity to find his way back to sanity. By the time the spots had left his eyes, Clint had already cleaned them both up and was wearing a clean pair of jeans and sitting on the side of the mattress. Phil tried to smile, but he was too relaxed to do more than twist half his mouth into a happy grimace.

“Ready for sleep now,” Phil said tiredly. “That was… that was amazing. You’re right about your hands.”

“I’m right about everything,” Clint replied in a lazy drawl. “Look, Phil, as much as I want nothing more than to curl up around you right now, I can’t. It’s just… I need a little distance to see this, okay? It’s just so much to take in. I can’t get my head around it yet. So you sleep here tonight. I’m gonna crash on the couch. Tomorrow, we’ll talk some more, yeah?”

“Yeah, okay,” Phil said. He wanted to pull Clint down to him, drape himself across that broad chest, feel those obscenely muscled arms wrap around him, but he understood Clint’s need for time to comprehend what was happening. Instead, he simply reached out with one hand, and Clint caught it, pressing it to the side of his neck as he leaned down for a kiss. He dropped Phil’s hand gently onto the bed and pulled the comforter over Phil’s naked body, smoothing it gently over his shoulder.

“Goodnight, Sir,” he whispered against Phil’s lips. Phil was asleep before Clint made it down the stairs.

The next morning, Phil was wearing only a pair of Clint’s jeans and his own reading glasses and frying bacon in the tacky little kitchen. He’d slept well in Clint’s bed with Lucky for company while Clint folded his rangy frame onto the battered sofa. Clint was still asleep, one socked foot on the floor, drooling onto his own bicep. Phil pulled out his mobile to click a picture; Natasha would love to see this. If he was ever allowed to contact her again. 

“Breakfast is ready, Sleeping Beauty,” Phil said, leaning down to run his fingers through the mess of Clint’s soft, dirty-blond spikes. “There’s bacon with a side of bacon and some slightly suspect eggs.”

Clint’s smile was warm and soft as he rolled and stretched, wiping his cheek on the shoulder of his t-shirt. 

“Morning, Boss,” he said, flopping onto his back and fixing his sharp blue eyes on Phil’s mouth. “Trying to spoil me already?”

“You’re already past your sell by date, Barton,” Phil replied. He shrugged one shoulder and bent down to brush his lips across Clint’s. “Bacon’s getting cold.”

They leaned on the kitchen counter, shoulders bumping as they ate off the communal bacon plate. Clint took a forkful of eggs from the pan and cringed at a crunchy bit.

“You weren’t kidding about the suspect status of the eggs, Phil,” he said, shaking in a bit more salt. “How did you live when you weren’t on assignment?”

“When have I ever not been on assignment?” Phil asked dryly. “And I have the best intel-gathering organization in the world to keep me up to date on restaurants and carry-out joints.”

Clint laughed easily and pressed his hip against Phil’s for a long moment. 

“So how are you feeling today, Phil?” Clint asked, reaching into a cabinet for plates. 

“I’m starting to feel better, actually,” Phil said, taking one of the plates and dishing himself out a portion of eggs and a giant pile of bacon. “My arm is starting to remember things, or something.” He felt the blush crawling up his neck, so he beat a hasty retreat to the sofa. Clint followed and sat down close enough to Phil to let their arms bump occasionally.

“It’s your body you’re having the biggest problem with, then?” he asked Phil around a mouthful of breakfast.

“Mind, too,” Phil answered after swallowing his own first bite. “But yes, mostly in the way the two connect.”

“Might have a cure,” Clint said slowly. “If you’re up for some more this morning?” Phil clearly heard the question in Clint’s voice.

“Are you sure you’re up to it?” Phil asked. “I know it must really freak you out to think I’m dead, and then I just show up like this, and....”

“Yeah,” Clint answered. “Yeah, it does. But, Phil, I thought I’d never have another chance. I thought that we were done. Over. Gone. And I know your time is tight here, so, yes. Let’s do this.”

“After food,” Phil said. “Can’t let the bacon go to waste.”

“That would be a real crime, Sir.” Clint laughed easily and bumped their shoulders together. Phil was glad to see that some of the haunted look had started to fade.

Thirty minutes later, they were both stripped naked and sprawled across Clint’s bed, biting hard at biceps and shoulders, nails digging into backs.

“Want this… Want you so badly, Clint,” Phil moaned, grinding their hips together. Clint writhed under him.

“Anything, babe.” Clint gasped when Phil sucked hard at the base of his throat. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” Phil said. “Want you. In me. Just, God, fuck me.”

Clint moaned again and shoved Phil off of him roughly. “Talking like that, Phil. Can’t just… You’re gonna make me come before we even… Make me feel like a damn teenager.”

“Specialist,” Phil barked out, deciding to take charge of this operation right now. “Get going. I’m not waiting all day.”

“That sounds like a challenge, Sir,” Clint answered, eyes sparkling with amusement and voice full of snark. “We’ll see how long you’ll wait.”

Phil moaned, half with frustration, half with anticipation, and stretched his arms over his head to brace his palms against the headboard as Clint dribbled slick over his fingers. Phil’s legs were spread wide, and Clint crawled between his thighs.

“Going to go slow here, Phil,” Clint said. “It’s been awhile, huh? Don’t want to hurt you.”

Clint’s voice was full of dark promises of drawn-out pleasure that made Phil whimper and his hips flex. He whined again when one hot fingertip traced the seam of his thigh and slid behind his balls, and then he gasped as the finger found his hole and swirled.

“Who are you?” Clint asked, pressing gently, not enough pressure to breach the tight pucker.

“I think I’m… I don’t know…” Phil answered, closing his eyes to avoid having to meet Clint’s burning gaze.

“Why are you here?” Clint asked next, this time sliding the tip of one finger inside. Phil bucked, trying to chase the sensations of Clint’s touch in his body.

“I need to know if this body is really mine,” he gasped, groaning as the finger pressed in quickly. His eyes snapped open, and he lifted his head to watch Clint’s face as he spoke. “Fury… Hill… they’re lying to me. I know they are. You… You don’t lie. Clint, tell me who I am. Please. God...”

“You’re Philip J. Coulson,” Clint said, slowly thrusting his finger “You’re the baddest motherfucker at SHIELD, barring only Fury. And you are the most incredible human being I have ever known. Whatever happened, whatever they did to you doesn’t matter. We’ll figure it out. Right now, though, I have to say you feel, you react, you look just like my Phil always has.”

Phil sighed and dropped his head back on the pillows, giving himself up to the ripples of pleasure Clint’s steady hands were drawing through his body. He bucked again when Clint shifted his hand to press in with two fingers.

“Phil, damn, you open so easily for me,” Clint whispered. His breathing was becoming ragged, huffing across the bare skin of Phil’s burning thigh. “God, you’re gorgeous.”

“Clint,” Phil gritted out from between clenched teeth, “need you… need you in me. Yesterday.”

“Sorry, babe,” Clint said, and Phil opened one eye to glare balefully at Clint’s smirk. “Still not done with you yet.” Clint leaned forward and caught Phil’s lips in a searing kiss. The shift brushed his fingers over Phil’s prostate, and Phil lost control, coming untouched between their bodies.

“Goddamn,” Clint huffed, keeping a gentle rhythm with his fingers as he watched Phil come apart. “So hot, babe. So fucking hot.”

Phil stared at the ceiling until his breathing was closer to normal. 

“Well that was unexpected,” he finally said, managing to keep his voice bland and calm.

Clint huffed a laugh, withdrew his hand, and leaned his forehead against Phil’s shoulder, gently kissing his scars. 

“Doesn’t mean you have to stop what you’re doing down there,” Phil said, bending his leg to kick lightly at Clint’s hip. “Your fingers still feel really good.”

“Mean it?” Clint asked, sitting up and staring down with wide eyes. Phil was always too sensitive to keep going after orgasm. “You’re sure?”

“You have your orders, Specialist,” Phil replied, using his Agent-in-charge voice. Clint actually whimpered at that and shoved himself to his knees. Phil sighed and wiggled as Clint’s fingers slid back into place. “Just like that,” Phil said.

By the time Clint was three fingers in, Phil was already hard again and thrusting down against the pressure of Clint’s hand. 

“Jesus, Phil,” Clint breathed reverently. “What did they do to you when they put you back together?”

“Don’t know,” Phil gasped out, digging in his heels to buck his hips hard. “Just… Fuck! Get up here!”

Clint withdrew his hand a little too quickly, leaving Phil empty and whining, but the sound of a condom packet tearing open was comforting.

“How do you want me?” Phil panted.

“Around my cock, Sir,” was Clint’s prompt reply, and oh hell, no way Phil could resist that kind of a challenge.

“Fine,” Phil said, levering himself off the bed to slam an unsuspecting Clint onto his back. Phil watched Clint’s eyes go wide and his mouth drop open as he found himself buried all the way inside Phil in one hard, fast slide.

“Oh, fuck,” Clint breathed, and then his eyes nearly rolled back as Phil levered himself up before slamming back down.

“Like that?” Phil asked. He rolled his hips before lifting up again. “Is this how you want it? You like it when I take charge? All you have to do is lay back and take it.” Another circle of his hips. “Need it like this?” Clint obviously still liked it when Phil got mouthy. And Phil’s body obviously remembered how to take Clint apart. “Come on, Clint. Give it to me.”

Clint lost the power of speech as Phil rode him, and all he could do was dig his fingers into Phil’s thighs and jerk his own hips up, lifting to meet every downward thrust. He growled in his chest, gasping, eyes wide and dark, mouth still hanging slack. Phil kept up a steady stream of filthy words as he worked his hips in a punishing tempo. 

“Feel so good in me, Clint,” Phil gasped, throwing his head back. “So hard, so full. God, touch me!”

Clint wrapped his hand around Phil’s erection and let Phil fuck into it on the upstroke. 

“Yes! Yes! Harder! Fuck!” Phil sped up his body, feeling his second orgasm rushing up on him. “Come on, Clint! God, need you to come. Fuck! Fuck! Now!”

Clint’s mouth snapped shut, and he let out a muffled groan as his hips jerked up once, twice more. The throb of his cock set Phil off, too, and his come striped across Clint’s stomach and chest. Seconds later, Phil went limp across the mess between them.

“Holy fuck, Phil,” Clint finally managed to say. “That was the most incredible thing I’ve felt in… ever.”

Phil laughed against Clint’s jaw and pressed a kiss to the soft skin behind his ear. “You’re the most incredible thing I’ve felt in ever,” Phil replied with a chuckle.

“Nap now?” Clint asked, draping an arm across the back of Phil’s shoulders as he gently rolled them to their sides. He reached down to hold the condom as he slipped out, and then he removed it, tied it off, and threw it to the trashcan without looking away from Phil’s eyes. “It’s really you, isn’t it?” he asked gently, uncertainty in his gaze and voice.

“Yeah, Clint,” Phil answered. He pressed a kiss to the corner of Clint’s mouth. “It’s really me.”

Clint didn’t look much reassured, but he relaxed a bit, and they drifted off with their foreheads pressed together, legs twisted around each other’s, ignoring the sticky mess between them.

Several hours later, over a supper of delivery pizza that they shared with the dog, Clint again brought up the question of how long Phil was going to stay.

“I have to leave in forty-three hours if I’m going to make it back to the Bus before decontamination is finished,” Phil told him. 

“Then come here,” Clint said, handing his last crust off to Lucky and holding out his arms. “I need a little more of you before you go.

Phil leaned back, letting his body sag into Clint’s embrace. Clint’s lips brushed the side of his neck gently. “How are you feeling, babe?” Clint asked gently.

“Better,” Phil replied. “Not perfect. Not completely back together, but closer to centered.”

“How did you get so…,” Clint began. He stopped. Moved his mouth a moment and then tried again. “How did you get it up… Where did this sudden lack of a refractory period come from?”

“Dunno,” Phil answered. “But I can run a bit further than I used to, and I don’t get as winded from sparring, either.”

“But Phil,” Clint said, “That was… really different.”

“Clint,” Phil said gently, trying to keep from showing the embarrassment that he was feeling, “these are the first orgasms I’d had since…”

“Babe…” Clint started, and then he stopped and sighed. He was quiet for a moment, stroking his fingers through Phil’s hair. Phil could feel the line of tension in Clint’s body that said he was considering something and not happy about the possible conclusions.

“Tell me about Tahiti, Phil,” Clint commanded. 

“It… it was boring. And painful. And I don’t think I’m remembering it quite right,” Phil said.

“And…?” Clint prompted.

“What?” Phil asked, twisting to look Clint in the eye.

“There was a phrase you were using,” Clint answered. “Before. Twice at the diner. That’s what clued me in to something being wrong.”

“I don’t remember it,” Phil said slowly.

“That’s probably for the best,” Clint answered, wrapping his arms more tightly around Phil’s chest. “It was like some kind of freaky hypnotism thing. Your own personal Tahiti-mantra. Creepy as fuck, and you didn’t even seem to know you were saying it.” He shivered against Phil’s back and nosed in against his neck. “Don’t want to think about it right now. What say we go see if you have anything else left to give tonight?”

“Seriously, Barton?” Phil asked, raising one eyebrow. “Yes, it worked out okay earlier, but it had been a rather long time. And you really wore me out there. It’d take a miracle greater than a little blue pill to make anything happen again tonight.”

“I’m game to try” Clint whispered. “And even if neither of us can get there again, maybe we can just spend some time checking for any other anomalies.”

“And how long do you think this examination will take?” Phil asked archly. 

“I’ll start with this hand,” Clint said, lifting Phil’s right to his mouth, “and work my way out from here. See where it gets us, hmm?”

And then he leaned in and pressed his lips to the soft skin behind Phil’s ear, and Phil was happy to forget for a couple of stolen days.  
____

Clint swung the duffle into Lola’s passenger seat and reached out for Phil. 

“You’ll keep trying to figure out what’s going on with your body?” Clint asked, voiced muffled by Phil’s shoulder. “You’ll keep an eye out for anything else new and different? No more letting the physical changes slide, no more ignoring them?”

“I’ll try,” Phil answered, palming the back of Clint’s neck to hold him close. “It’s not as important right now. You’ve gotten me through the worst of it.”

“It doesn’t matter what happened to you, Phil,” Clint murmured. He rubbed his cheek against Phil’s jaw with a rumbling like a contented cat. “All that matters is that you’re still you, and you’re still here. However that happened, I don’t care. We’ll figure this out. Just need you to be able to see what’s going on.”

“Clint… I… Thanks,” Phil said against Clint’s earlobe. He lipped at it before continuing. “Getting answers isn’t pressing yet, but I do want to know. Right now, though, I have a mission to plan.”

“You’ll be back?” Clint’s voice was quiet, cautious, both hopeful and fearful.

“As I can be, Clint,” Phil told him. “When I can. You could come with us sometime. See how the little people live, Avenger.”

“When I can,” Clint echoed. They both knew it couldn’t happen, with security clearances as they stood. He leaned back to give Phil a quick kiss. “Now get out of here and save the world, Sir.”

“You still can’t give me orders, Barton,” Phil said blandly before returning the kiss. “Be careful out there, Hawkeye.”

“You, too, Agent,” Clint said, opening Lola’s door for Phil to climb in. “Take care of him, Little Red Vette.”

Phil was smiling as he drove away.

Twenty-four hours later, as the rest of Phil's team was bustling around, readying for their next mission, Phil was staring at a string of numbers on a screen that told him in no uncertain terms that he was locked out of whatever information was stored in certain, physical only files. No way to read them without getting into Fury’s office. And that would have to wait. 

“Wheels up in twenty,” Phil barked into the com, closing the program and pushing aside his uncertainties. “Let’s go be spooks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments; I live to interact! Or come visit me at [my tumblr](http://faeleverte.tumblr.com) where I blog about nothing in particular and anything that pops into my head. Thanks for joining us on this crazy journey!
> 
> Be sure to read [Black Box](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1037960), part one of the series by Kathar!


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